The Kingslayer and The Beauty
by PrincessFabala
Summary: The meeting between Brienne and Jaime where he gives her Oathbreaker is a little less frosty. Rated M for smut. (Heavy editing currently taking place - 13/06/16)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Hi all. I've recently come back to this story, which has involved heavy editing and coming up with an actual plot. Mostly, it's still just Brienne/Jaime fluff and smut, but interspersed with some action. I've got seven chapters written, which is two more than I've ever posted, but uploads may be quite slow as I juggle school and editing and writing new content. But anyway, here you are, a not too heavily edited prologue:**

 **Disclaimer:** **ASOIAF isn't mine. If it were, I wouldn't need to write fanfiction.**

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There she was, standing in front of him. Their roles were reversed – she was now his prisoner, but not for much longer. That dynamic had never suited them well. She was dressed in woman's clothes again, but not pink and Myrish lace, at least. It fit her well, and even managed to give her something akin to a woman's figure. She wore a deep blue gown with sleeves that reached her wrists without embellishment. The skirt was full, pleated with lighter blue panels. The bodice was embroidered with vines and flowers, which didn't exactly suit her, but she did look nice for a change. Someone had washed her hair, which was a dirty white-blonde and it stretched neatly to her shoulders, but it wasn't yet long enough to braid.

All of these efforts paled into insignificance when he looked into her eyes. Big, blue, innocent orbs that glittered in the candle-light. They were the colour of sapphires, just like the seas surrounding the isle that she was born on.

"Blue is a good colour on you, my lady," he said. It felt strange to call her a lady, and not wench, but she was the daughter of a lord, whether she liked it or not. "It goes well with your eyes."

Brienne flushed red, looking down at herself garmented in such a dress. She felt ugly, though the septa had tried her best to alter it for her. It reminded her of something she had worn when she was a girl, except this one fit better. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't pretty. She stood by the door, unsure of this new Jaime, who wasn't half starved and wore a white cloak. She wanted to leave.

"Jaime," she breathed. "You look..."

"Different?" he finished. He managed a small smile. He was different, he supposed. He realized that he no longer loved his twin. He wanted to love her, but he just couldn't any longer. She was too caught up in her own power to be the same woman.

"More meat on the ribs and fewer lice in my hair, that's all. The stump's the same," he lied. "Come here,"

She moved towards him nervously. This was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and she was, technically his prisoner. Although she felt more like a guest. She had been kept far more comfortably than she had kept him. No chains had been involved, at least. But he was still the Kingslayer, a man without honour.

"The white cloak..." she began. It changed a man, they said, to wear the white cloak. She wondered what he had been like before he took the white. Young, she supposed. In the years that he had worn the white cloak, he had killed the man he was sworn to protect, thrown a boy out of a window and quite possibly bedded his own sister. He was truly a man without honour. But just now, none of it seemed to matter.

"...is new, but I'm sure I'll soil it soon enough," he grinned, rolling his eyes at her. She thought every knight was as noble as the ones in the songs, but there were no songs where the Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard were commanded to kill their own father. Cursed was the oathbreaker. Cursed was the kinslayer. What else could he do but soil his bloody white cloak?

"That wasn't… I was about to say that it becomes you," she said, putting all thoughts of the Kingslayer aside. For now, he was just Jaime. He looked very handsome. She stepped closer, so they were within an arm's length. She could have reached to caress his face from this distance and it was all she could do not to.

He smiled, a charming grin and she did not have to hold back her desire any longer. Because he reached for her. His stump reached for her hip and his hand caressed her flushed cheek. She lifted her own arms, but wasn't quite sure what to do with them. She had been betrothed three times, but never had she been touched in this way before. Never had she felt like this.

One hand cupped the stump on her hip, holding it there, letting her feel the scars in what remained of his wrist. The other hand went to his neck, her thumb brushing against his chin.

"Kingslayer," she whispered. "This is wrong."

Wrong? They had done nothing wrong. She was a maiden of noble birth; he was a Lannister of Casterly Rock. There was far less wrong here than when he fucked his own sister. He may also be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but he had broken those vows before.

"I don't care, wench," he returned, punctuating his statement with his favourite insult for her.

She pulled away suddenly, embarrassed. He was being playful, but she clearly hadn't understood. He had thought the tenderness of his caress would be enough, but the slight reminded her she was a woman, when so often she tried to be a knight.

He kissed her. Her lips were dry, not as sweet or willing as Cersei's. But she did not resist. A few moments later, her own lips began to move against his. It was a sweet bliss. Her hand found its way back to his stump, which she caressed gently. His own hand wanted nothing more than to find her almost non-existent breasts, but it was too soon. She was not Cersei. She was a maid, naive and innocent to the ways of men and marriage beds, or fornications outside of marriage. An excellent fighter she may be, but nonetheless a maid.

His hand brushed her hip instead, moving up to clasp her back and keep her close. His lips tugged at her bottom one. He doubted she'd ever been kissed before. At least, not more than a polite peck on the cheek. She deserved the pure devotion that knights had for their ladies in songs. She deserved love. She certainly deserved more than a crippled Lannister who had killed kings, crippled children and fucked his own sister for more years than he cared to count. But she parted her lips for him nonetheless.

She felt conflicted as his lips pressed onto hers. He wanted more than just a kiss, she was certain. Was she really willing to forsake her maidenhead for him and his ulterior motives? She was the heir to Tarth, if she didn't disgrace herself or die before her father. It was her duty to make a good match. Not that that was likely. Three times she had been betrothed, yet still she was a maiden. What would it matter if he took her maidenhead? No sane man was ever like to want it. But he did. He had saved her from being raped half a hundred times, she had always wanted an explanation why. But why would he want her when he could have the Queen, if rumours were true?

She was over-thinking. It was a kiss, nothing more. A moment of madness, mayhaps. It would go no further, she told herself, just as she felt a tug on her lower lip.

Her lips parted in surprise as he pulled at the bottom one. His tongue slipped between his own lips to trace hers before slipping inside her mouth. The taste was more bitter than Cersei's, but raw, untainted by the floral perfumes that Cersei wore. Strangely, he preferred it.

His tongue was inside her mouth now, and they were joined. It felt unnatural, strange to have a part of him inside her. But it felt good. She felt an overwhelming desire to touch him, not anywhere intimate, but she just wanted to feel his warmth. Her hand left his stump to settle in the base of his back and the other gripped his neck lightly.

She responded to his kiss like a maid should, with little whimpers that she would be mortified to hear normally, but she seemed oblivious to them, to everything except the kiss. But the noises she was making sounded beautiful to him, and were doing a very good job of making him hard.

She hated the little noises that sounded in her throat. She sounded like a little girl, a stupid little girl, but she couldn't stop them coming out.

His need was building, usually he would be inside Cersei's cunt as soon as he was hard. Their exchanges were brief, so they did not get caught. He hadn't taken fucking slowly for a long time. He hadn't taken a maiden in a long time either. Not that he was certain it would get as far as that. Her maidenhead was precious to her, but she also didn't care to remind anyone that she was woman either. The next step was a risk, but all good things were.

He left his stump at her waist but moved his hand up to the swells on her chest, and felt the padding giving her body a more feminine shape. Right now, he didn't care for the dress – he wanted her naked, screaming in pleasure for him. His hand cupped the cloth around her teats, yet she still didn't pull away.

Sparks flew through her, his touch was wonderful on her breasts. She should move away. This was very inappropriate. It felt better than swordplay, better than anything she had ever felt before. His mouth left hers and her heart fell. He couldn't stop now. Mayhaps his senses had returned to him.

He began to kiss a wet trail from her lips down her neck, pausing to nibble on a spot of smooth, pale skin below one ear. Her breath hitched. Her chest was heaving after the long kiss, but his access to it was barred by the fabric of her dress. It wasn't safe to expose her here.

He took her hand and led her to his sleeping cell. It was modest, but it would serve.

"Kingslayer," she breathed. "This isn't what I expected."

Her eyes flicked around the whitewashed room, from the soft sleeping pallet in the corner to the chest of clothing. His room was bare, unadorned with treasures and gold.

"We Kingsguard are a humble folk," he quipped, standing behind her to unlace her gown. His fingers pulled the strings clumsily. It was pulled tight – she must be extremely uncomfortable.

"Yes, but Lannisters aren't," she mumbled in return. She could feel his cold fingers on her neck, making her spine tingle. She felt the laces on her borrowed dress loosening and took a deep sigh. It felt good to breathe freely again.

"I gave up being a Lannister the day I said my vows," he lied. "I gave up being a Lannister when Father disowned me, when Cersei finally went mad with power and greed" he thought. It wasn't a difficult thing to give up.

The gown slipped from her shoulders to pool on the floor. She stood in only her linen shift. She felt vulnerable before him, fully clothed and handsome. He still stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist. His mouth latched onto the base of her shoulder. Hard.

Her skin tasted sweet – raw and natural. He found himself pressed against her back, his member against her arse. Could she feel how hard he was? Why was he hard for her? She was still hideously ugly, except her eyes. He'd never met an uglier maiden, but she was brave and loyal and stupid. He liked her a lot.

He wouldn't take her from behind. That was for fucking. She deserved to be made love to, slowly, gently. She had never known that tenderness before. He let go of her shoulder and she took the opportunity to turn around.

He was very handsome. She ran a hand through his short hair, growing longer now he was back under the protection of his Kingsguard armour. Her other hand went to the laces that secured his leather jerkin in place. She deftly untied them, and pulled his shirt over his head. His bare chest was covered in bruises, and the chiselled muscle that had once been famed across all seven kingdoms had wasted away in the dungeons under Riverrun. He would never be as beautiful as he once was.

She felt guilty about the bruises, but any she had given him must have faded a long time ago. One hand traced the scars and bruises on his chest. It made him wince when she did, so she stopped. She didn't want to hurt him. She didn't want him to stop this, never mind that he should.

He kissed her again, but more gently this time. There was a hint of passion in the kiss as their tongues moved together. He pulled her close to him, until there was no space between them. His bare chest pressed against hers, until only her shift separated their skin. Their bodies pressed together, and they were lovers.

He broke the kiss only when he was breathless and reached down to relieve her of the shift. Her skin was porcelain, her stomach toned, her breasts even smaller than he had feared. Her first instinct was to cover her bare teats, her slit still covered by her smallclothes. His cock throbbed impatiently as he took in her naked form. She wasn't as beautiful as Cersei, but she had made him just as hard.

There was a chill of dishonour in the air as she allowed him to remove her shift. She was not his wife or a whore – she should not be naked before him. Both hands covered her breasts, blocking any further exploratory touches. This was too far. It had to stop. But she couldn't find it in herself to pick up her shift.

Jaime put his own hand over hers and guided it away from her body. He led her hand to his breeches, and soon enough, both her hands were working on untying the laces and freeing his cock. That left her body exposed to him, for his eyes and hand and stump to roam. His hand returned to her breast, where he cupped it and began to knead it gently.

No-one's touch had felt as good as this before. Her chest had flushed as he explored it, and a need was rising deep within her that she had never felt before. She was nervous too, which made her smile. She would face death, but not a man's cock. Every woman experienced this, it was nothing to be afraid of. He would be gentle with her, she trusted.

His breeches were around his knees, and he was naked in front of her. His cock throbbed, purple at the head. It must be the first cock she had ever seen. He smiled when he remembered again that she was a naive little maid. Though he supposed little was the wrong word.

It was bigger than she thought it would be, long and thick and angry. How did men fit themselves into such tiny maidens? She doubted it would even fit inside her. Her heart was racing, and she felt a wetness between her thighs that she had never felt before. Her fingers brushed it as she moved her hands away and he breathed in sharply. His hand was tugging at her smallclothes. This was her last chance. She could still put an end to all this dishonour, but it may be too little, too late.

She let him expose her slit.

He kicked his own breeches off from around his knees, motioned for her to step out of her smallclothes and led her to his sleeping pallet. She lay on her back as he climbed on top of her, kissing her lips, her neck, her breasts. His mouth latched onto one of her nipples, sucking gently on it as his hand grazed her hip. His stump hung limply over the side of the bed, unsure of where to put it. He was still clumsy with it, and this required a particular grace.

His trail of kisses left her breast and Brienne whined at the loss of sensation. It was a beautiful noise, one that made his cock even more desperate to be inside her. He brought the trail across her muscled stomach and down further.

She moaned in pleasure as his nose brushed her mound. She tasted earthy, raw, innocent, unspoiled, beautiful. The sensations all came to him all at once as he dipped his tongue between her folds. She shivered beneath him as a man explored her for the first time. He probed a little deeper, using his fingers to brush her hips, to stroke her smooth skin. His cock complained to him as he ignored it, but he was more interested in her pleasure than his own. She deserved to know she was loved.

His tongue was amazing. It was too late to stop this madness, so she lost herself in it. He made her writhe and moan with only the power of his tongue. The sounds she made embarrassed her, but she didn't make them consciously and she couldn't stop them. The need in her continued to build as the pleasure coursed through her.

His tongue flicked her mound, venturing inside her slit. She was wet, so wet. For him. One finger slipped inside her, but she was so tight. And he was clumsy with his left hand. He was so deft when he was right-handed. He was just so clumsy now.

He flexed his finger inside her, sliding it out and back in, and smiled a little as he heard her moan at the new sensation. It only served to make him more desperate to be inside her, but he knew she wasn't ready yet. He added a second finger and began to slide them in and out, stretching her, preparing her for his member. He had to be careful though, it wouldn't take much for her to be finished, and he wanted them to climax together.

She was wetter than ever, ready as she would ever be for his throbbing cock. Her legs were spread wide, her face morphing from pleasure to disappointment as he withdrew his fingers.

"This will hurt," he murmured, guiding the head of his shaft to her slit.

"I'll scream," she grinned, before wincing in pain as her maidenhead, and her honour, were shattered.

The pain was intense, something different to being wounded in a fight. The ache was dull, but pressing. The pleasure was still there, shadowed by this new pain, and it returned as he thrust his length into her. She grimaced as his full length was inside her, his stones against the outside of her slit. Her fists clenched tightly, but the pain began to subside.

He withdrew slightly and thrust again, causing her to grunt in pain and pleasure. She was a great beast, he thought as he thrust again, a little harder this time. But he loved this beast. Her hips bucked involuntarily, bringing him closer to the edge. It made him happier to know that she was enjoying this.

Her body reacted impulsively to his, and they were joined as man and woman. It was the best she had ever felt as a woman, and she finally understood why the Kingslayer always said that he only felt alive when fighting or fucking.

He thrust into her again, hitting a place deep inside her that sent all competent thought from her mind.

"Kingsl-" she moaned, the last letters lost in a heaving breath.

She couldn't bear to say his name, still? He was determined to make her scream his name. His real name. He thrust again, harder, faster and she groaned again. She was so fucking tight. Her walls resisted him, but clenched around him as he pulled out of her again. Only his very tip was inside her, until he plunged into her again, his stones slapping against her skin. It set off an eruption in her and he knew they were both close.

He latched onto her nipple, biting, sucking, teasing her towards the edge. Their hips moved together now, to a rhythm only they could hear, creating friction and sensation. Her hands clutched his back, forcing him to stay close, her immense strength pressing down on him as he thrust and grunted and suckled.

It felt incredible, their bodies moulded together. Where one of them began and the other ended, it was impossible to tell. The Kingslayer and the Beauty, they were one. The pleasure she felt was building to some kind of climax, she knew, and she was close to it.

She was panting heavily, her chest heaving up and down as he thrust into her, faster and faster. He was close too. His hand went to her other teat, squeezing, kneading her soft flesh. She was so beautiful, moaning, writhing under his touch. For once, she was completely vulnerable and had abandoned all pretence. She was a woman.

His fingers were at work on one nipple, his mouth the other. She lost all sensation, all sense of time and place and knowledge. All that existed was his touch, his thrusts. Gods, it was good!

He thrust again, his cock pounding into her. He was there. He heard her moan again.

"Say my name," he panted. He would get her to say it, to scream it as she climaxed.

"-slayer!" she moaned, the letters lost to pleasure.

"That is not my name," he growled, biting down on her nipple to illicit the correct response.

"Jaime!"

She screamed his name, and for a few instants, she felt complete. Happy.

He spilled his seed inside her, and felt her walls clenching around him as she moaned his name. He thrust one more time, grunting his pleasure. He had won. The sound of her screeching his name for the whole castle to hear was perfect. But it didn't matter if anyone heard. She would soon be gone and he could easily claim he'd had a whore. It wasn't strictly against his vows. His heart was racing, and he pulled out of her.

"Wench," he smiled as he rolled off her.

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 **A/N As always, I hope you enjoyed. I love reviews and I welcome concrit as well.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N A really short chapter I know, but I felt it needed to be separate from the last chapter. Originally I was going to end this fic here, but I decided to explore what would happen after the events of this chapter and so far, I've written two more chapters, which I need to edit before posting. Anyway, hope you like.**

 **Disclaimer: No. ASOIAF isn't mine, surprisingly enough. It, and its characters belong to GRRM.**

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There was little space for them to share the bed, but it didn't matter – they wouldn't share it for long.

"You have to go," he murmured. Her face was incredulous, disbelieving. How could he send her away, back to her cell, after what they'd just done? He truly was a man without honour.

"It's not safe for you here. You're not clever enough to survive King's Landing, and if Cersei finds out I fucked you then she will kill you. Besides, you swore a vow,"

"To deliver Lady Stark's daughters?" She understood what he said about her being stupid. She assumed too much. He wasn't a bad man. He wasn't a good man either, but he cared for her, at least a little.

"Yes. I did promise Lady Stark her daughters… and one of them is still alive. I pay my debts like every good little lion, and I have a gift for you."

He shared what knowledge he had with her, of Sansa and Arya, or not Arya, as he knew. He waited, his head on her shoulder, until her breathing had levelled out. He wished they could stay there like this, fuck more, rest, sleep. But the gods were cruel. He would miss her warmth.

He forced himself to get up and dressed, though he left the leather jerkin on the floor where she had discarded it. He helped her into her dress, fiddling with the laces, but leaving them looser than her handmaiden had.

He led her back to the Lord Commander's solar, presenting her a bundle on crimson velvet. She reached out a hand to unfold the cloth. Rubies sparkled on the hilt, studded around a leather grip. The steel was the colour of blood and jet, folded together, forged lighter than any new steel with magic and dragonfire.

"Is this Valyrian steel?" she breathed. She knew the answer. The real question was why he was giving it to her? "I have never seen such colours."

"Nor I, but the blade is wasted on me. Take it, and call it Oathkeeper, it would please me," he instructed. "You want to please me, don't you, wench?"

His words were dark, and Brienne didn't care for them. "Not particularly, Kingslayer. Why are you giving this to me?"

"Consider it an engagement present that comes with a price," he returned.

"An engage-" she said, her eyes wide with surprise.

He cut her off. "Find Sansa Stark, take her somewhere safe and come back to me. Then, I will marry you."

"Why?"

"Because it's a good match. Your father will declare for King Tommen and be against Stannis, Stannis will lose the war and I get to be Lord of Tarth," he said smugly. Tarth, he thought, a smaller inheritance than he could have once had, but being away from Cersei and Tywin and the power of Casterly Rock was enough compensation.

"Kingsguard serve for life. You can't wed,"

"They'll let me leave the Kingsguard. I can't serve the king all that well if I only have one hand now, can I?"

"And what makes you think I want to wed you? Have Lannister children? What makes you think I want to bear anyone's children?" she snapped.

"Bear a bastard then," he returned, his eyes flicking to the slit between her legs. He imagined it was still smeared with a mix of her maiden's blood and his seed.

She looked shocked, as if no-one had never explained to her what happened between the marriage bed and childbirth. "What if-"

"Find a maester and have him brew you some moon tea. Tell him you were raped or something. Or have a bastard, a permanent stain on your honour," he grinned.

"And yours?" she replied.

"Not if I don't acknowledge it." His smile was dark and cruel. "I'm a man without honour, did you forget, wench?"

"My name is-" It didn't annoy her so much as it used to, being called a wench, not by him. It was almost a game they played.

"Brienne of Tarth, I know. Sansa Stark is my last chance for honour," he admitted.

"Fine. I will find Lady Sansa and keep her safe. For her lady mother's sake. And for yours."

He embraced her, his head buried in her chest. He would miss her. He reached up to her lips, slipping his tongue inside her mouth just for an instant, just to remind him how sweet she was. His lips tugged on her bottom one as she pulled away to leave. Before she did though, she took his right arm and trembling, pressed it to her lips. Her touch was as soft as a young knight's kissing a fair maiden's hand for the first time.

"I was that hand," he murmured.

She smiled sadly, returning his stump to his side. "I like you better without it."

"Farewell Jaime," she whispered, turning for the door, Oathbreaker in its little bundle of velvet in her arms.

"Goodbye Brienne."

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 **A/N Hope you liked - if you did, please let me know in a review. Please?  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Here you are - a third chapter, finally edited and a lot longer than the previous chapter. No smut here, just a fluffy little wedding scene. Hope you enjoy. (Now edited to include the scene where Jaime finds out about Brienne being pregnant - as suggested by Firefly-class)  
**

 **Disclaimer: No. It's not mine.**

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She stood at the altar of the Mother, her maiden's cloak wrapped around her shoulders, though she was no maiden. She had bedded her husband-to-be before, was carrying his child already. A bastard was growing inside her, but it wouldn't be a bastard as soon as she was wed. Admittedly, the timings would be questioned, but it didn't matter.

They were as far away from politics as they could hope to be, hidden safely away on the isle of Tarth. The sept, the castle, the island was quaint, modest. Yet Brienne still couldn't believe that she was here. She was alive, when more than once she had felt the Stranger's icy breath on her neck. She was back on Tarth, when she had expected to die far from home at the command of Renly or Catelyn or Jaime. She was at the altar of the Mother beside her lover waiting to be wed, when she had been certain that she would never be a bride.

It seemed a lifetime ago that she had shared those brief moments of passion with Jaime, allowed him to take her maidenhead. It had only been five moons though.

The maester in Duskendale had brewed her a cup of moon tea. Mercifully, he had not been a prying maester, and he did not ask why she wanted it. A maester lived to serve, he muttered. But it had not worked. She waited as she travelled the countryside, anxious for it to arrive, yet it did not come. Her moon's blood didn't come then and it hadn't come since. His seed had quickened inside her and was slowly pushing her stomach outwards, making her fat as well as hideous.

It had been difficult to fight and ride and make camp as she grew more exhausted each day, but she wouldn't admit it to anyone but Podrick, the young squire who had gone far beyond what was required of him, taking on more and more work. But now, it was done, and Sansa Stark was safe in the Vale, wed to some heir to somewhere and protected by all the knights in the east.

She had returned to King's Landing after that, her stomach swollen but otherwise relatively unhurt. The guards spat at her as she begged an audience with the Lord Commander. Jaime Lannister had been dismissed from the Kingsguard, they chuckled, after a spat with Queen Cersei. He had fled, apparently, to some island in the middle of nowhere. She knew exactly where he meant.

Tarth was unchanged. It was strange to look on the sapphire-blue waters and the fields of autumn wheat, when war had savaged so much of the mainland. So much had changed in Westeros, but here on Tarth, time had stood still. Besides a few men sent to appease Renly, and then Stannis, war had not reached the sapphire isle.

Jaime was there waiting for her, in the longhall, as she strode in to meet her father. He smiled smugly when he saw her, seated in a place of high honour at Lord Selwyn's right hand. The two of them were engrossed in deep conversation. Podrick Payne sidled in unnoticed behind her. Jaime rose to greet her, bowing slightly as he kissed her hand. His touch, however brief, sent sparks shooting through her. She had missed him.

"My lady," he said, with a mocking smile.

"Kingslayer," she murmured, so her father could not hear. His pride looked wounded as she spoke, but it made no matter, as her father began to speak.

"Lord Jaime Lannister," Lord Selwyn said needlessly. "He has come to seek your hand. I have tentatively accepted the match, provided you are not against it."

He had kept his word for once, then. "Not entirely a man without honour," she smiled. "When did you become a lord?"

"I may have made a mistake. Anyway, my father is dead, so I am, officially, Lord of Casterly Rock," he boasted. "Not that I want it."

"I'm not against it," she admitted to her father.

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"Jaime," she breathed. She couldn't believe he was here. They were finally alone in the longhall, after a tedious supper of her father being self-important and talking about her as if she was the fairest maiden in Westeros to Jaime. She kept stealing glances at him as Lord Selwyn talked. He spent the whole meal looking as if he was about to burst into laughter.

But now they were alone.

"Ah, Tarth," he grinned. "It's as beautiful as you said it was."

"Kingslayer, I can't believe you're here," she said. "I have something to tell you."

She glanced down at her swollen stomach. He must have noticed already.

"What is it, Brienne?" What could it be? Sansa Stark was safe, or Brienne wouldn't have come back. She was a woman of honour – she would have kept her word. But her tone sounded serious. It must be important.

"I'm with child, Jaime. Your child, from when we, you know," she said. His couldn't believe it. He hadn't meant for this to happen. Could she not find a maester? Perhaps he should have spilled his seed on her stomach.

He still intended to marry her, but people would question the timing of the child's birth. But it was his son, he was certain. But after only one time together? It had taken him and Cersei years to make Joffrey, but he supposed she hadn't flowered when they started. She had probably had a lot of moon tea too.

He wasn't sure he was ready to be a real father. When he had agreed to marry Brienne, he hadn't really expected to have any more children. He honestly expected them to spend their days in the training yard and their nights in her bed. Children had never really entered his fantasies, not at all since he had joined the Kingsguard.

"That's wonderful," he finally stuttered. He could almost see them, raising little sons and daughters as warriors. A short time ago, he would have imagined his daughters like Myrcella, beautiful, clever ladies of court. But Brienne wouldn't have daughters like that.

"I thought you were going to get some moon tea," he said after a moment's pause.

"I did," she murmured. She sounded a little afraid, worried, shy. He'd heard vulnerability in her before, but never shyness. She had always been irritatingly confident. "It didn't work."

He moved towards her. They were only a few feet apart as it was, but in a matter of moments, there was no distance between them. He wrapped his arms around her neck, his body pressing against her bump in a way it hadn't before.

Their lips locked in a long, sweet kiss. It was surprisingly chaste for such a reunion, the way a noble knight would kiss his lady in a song. He had so few opportunities to compare his life to songs. He pulled away from her, bringing his hand and stump to her stomach.

"So this is my son?" he asked.

"It could be your daughter," she pointed out.

"Shush wench. I think it's a son," he said cockily.

* * *

The next day was tedious. She didn't get to see Jaime at all – she was whisked off to be fitted for her wedding dress, though she insisted she didn't need a new dress, especially not a white one. She would look ridiculous, she knew, but her father wanted her to be presentable for the Lord of Lannister.

She took a stroll through the castle gardens with her father that afternoon, who didn't understand why the Lord of Casterly Rock and former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard wanted to marry his daughter. He tried to be polite about it, but she could see through him.

"You must try to be more lady-like for your husband. He may not approve of a woman bearing arms. It would not set a good example for your daughters. Or your sons," her father said.

Brienne suppressed a chuckle. "Of course Father. Did Lord Jaime say why he wanted to marry me?"

"He was very vague," her father began. "He said that after the death of his father, he was in a difficult political position and he thought that leaving King's Landing would be his safest option. And creating an alliance with Tarth would help to win the war with Stannis. I have had a raven sent to our men instructing them to withdraw."

Brienne smiled. Of course Jaime wouldn't have told him the real reasons, especially not what he had done with her maidenhood. "I see. And he did not care to divulge how we met?"

"You have met?" Lord Selwyn gasped, taken aback at the mere suggestion that anyone who had seen her before would seek her hand in marriage.

"Yes. Lady Catelyn Stark tasked me with delivering Jaime Lannister to King's Landing in exchange for the safe return of her daughters," she explained, leaving out most of the important parts. "I have to say, we bonded on the trip."

* * *

She looked hideous dressed in ivory silk, the fabric patterned with vines and flowers. The bodice was studded with a few sapphires and well-padded to accentuate her almost non-existent figure. The dress was stretched tight around her swollen stomach. It would have been beautiful on any proper woman, but it just made her look stupid. She kept tripping over the damn thing – it was so long.

Jaime was as handsome as ever. He had dressed in a crimson doublet embroidered with gold thread, presumably something he had brought with him from King's Landing. His hair was long and gold once more and shone in the bright light of the sept. He wore his golden hand too, laced to his stump. His beautiful, terrible stump. Losing his sword arm had destroyed him, the Kingslayer, and built him again as a better man. The man that she loved.

He felt a little insulted at what they'd dressed her in for the wedding. White didn't suit her, and vines and flowers were just wrong. It sat wrong on her body and she couldn't manage the length as it trailed behind her on the floor, almost making her fall a few times. It did her an injustice. She was beautiful in her own clothes, a tunic, breeches, the dress she had worn that day in the Kingsguard's Tower. She looked even better naked. Just the memory of that day made his cock stir, so he shoved it to the back of his mind. He had to focus on the wedding now, and a set of vows he honestly meant to keep.

The septon talked for a long time, but Jaime listened to but a word in ten. He was looking into his bride's eyes, full of nervousness and hope and love. Her eyes were stunning. They betrayed all her emotions, however stubborn her words were. They were rich as sapphires, deep and blue.

"...take her under your protection," was all he heard. He was spurred into action and turned to her. He couldn't undo the stupid clasp on her maiden's cloak. His golden hand pressed uselessly against her shoulder. He could feel heat and colour rushing to his face, until he felt her hand over his, unclasping the cloak, letting it fall to the floor.

He felt so stupid. He couldn't even cloak his own bride. How could he still be a man, when there was almost nothing he could do the way he used to? He was pathetic.

He unravelled the Lannister cloak he held, draping it on the floor behind her as she turned to accept it, pressing one corner to her left shoulder. The red and gold cloth slipped to the floor. He couldn't do it. He was no Lannister, not any longer. He had signed away his lands and titles only yesterday, meaning Tyrion was his heir. But he would be across the narrow sea before the raven delivered his abdication to King's Landing. Cersei was Lady of the Rock now, finally with her own power, no long the claim of her dead husband.

He would not make Brienne wear Lannister colours, he decided. She had no love for Lannisters, no more than he now had. But tradition dictated that he cloak her. Seconds slipped by. The few assembled guests waited silently. It had been barely a week since Brienne had arrived home, so the ceremony was only really attended by Lord Selwyn's household, a few knights and their squires, a minor lord or two from across the sea and Podrick Payne. The sept was just over half-full.

"Cloak me," he whispered suddenly. He bent to the floor and picked up her maiden's cloak. He was the bride here, in truth. He was leaving his house to join hers, not the other way around.

"What?" she gasped, whirling around. She had gulped when she had seen his crimson cloak. She had almost forgotten that he was still a Lannister, that she was becoming a Lannister. Once, she would have died rather than become one of them. But she had spent the last few minutes resigning herself to the fact that she would be cloaked in crimson. What was it Jaime always said? We don't get to choose who we love.

But he wouldn't do it. The guests were growing impatient, she could tell. Did it mean the wedding was cancelled?

"Cloak me!" he said, more impatiently this time, handing her the cloak, emblazoned with the arms of Tarth. She took it. Was this allowed? Could it still count as a lawful wedding? He turned, and she pressed the cloak to his back, clasping the corners together on his chest, her chin resting on his shoulder as she did so.

The guests all wore looks of disgust or confusion. It was an insult to the gods, this parting from tradition. The septon looked as if someone had just been murdered in front of him. His instruction had been ignored, yet the wedding continued around him.

The septon produced a ribbon of cloth, and Brienne grasped his golden hand. It was cold to her touch, and on an instinct, she turned to face him, and took his left hand as well. They had already abandoned all the wedding customs she knew, so why not break another? She could not be joined to the ghost of a man he used to be. His left hand was bound to her right and the septon spoke again.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity."

His voice was hoarse as he spoke, as if he was still trying to process the offence this wedding was causing to his Holy Faith. "Look upon one another and say the words."

Her eyes were wide and her hand was trembling in his. It seemed incredible to him that she would willingly go into battle, yet she was afraid to say some words in a sept. But, he supposed, these words were more than words, more than wind.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days," he heard himself say, his voice fading towards the end as he heard hers, a beautiful, breathy sigh.

I am hers and she is mine. They were bound together by more than a secret moment of passion. They were bound by all laws of gods and men. It felt good to belong to her, to the woman he loved. A year ago, he could not have imagined wedding anyone. He was in love with his twin. He was still in love with the idea of his twin, but she did not exist any longer. The idea of Brienne was enough.

He leaned forward to her, and she pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. There would be enough time for passion later. Their lips brushed, and the septon unbound their hands. They left the sept arm in arm, her maiden's cloak trailing behind him, the Lannister cloak forgotten at the altar of the Father. The arms of Tarth looked well on him, she mused, except the orange that clashed with his doublet. He was no longer a Lannnister though, despite the laws of gods and men. She would see to it that he did not wear Lannister crimson again.

The feast was a humble fare, given the onset of winter. Jaime said that he had lost his taste for wedding feasts after Joffrey's, so there were only seven courses. Brienne sat at her father's right hand with her new husband beside her. Podrick sat in a place of high honour on the end of the dais, far above where a squire should be, but Brienne and Jaime had both agreed that he deserved their long-term gratitude and a place on Tarth for life. He deserved to be safe as they did.

Soon enough, some of the knights began to call for the bedding. Brienne could not fathom why. They didn't want to see her naked, she was certain. She was the ugliest woman alive – most of these knights had their own ladies, or whores, to bed.

Jaime noticed his wife becoming quieter as the evening continued. When he was a young man, he had quite enjoyed bedding ceremonies, though none had been his own. That was until he saw his sister stripped naked and raped by that great oaf. He had stood guard outside her door that night. Since then, he had rather lost his taste for them.

"There will be no bedding," he muttered to Lord Selwyn, his goodfather, he supposed.

"You will not consummate the marriage?" he replied, his face twisted in shock and horror.

"I will. We will. Look, she's exhausted, and I doubt your men would be gentle with her," he replied. "She's more fragile than she looks, you know."

She made an expression of protest, but her eyelids were visibly drooping, so the Lord of Tarth stood to make a speech. There were looks of disappointment from many of the knights and ladies in the hall, but no verbal protests. The wedding had already been so unorthodox that many would rather not see it consummated. It was a very strange union.

"Come, my lady," he said, taking her hand and leading her sleepily from the longhall. He took her to his own chambers, as he didn't know where hers were. She stopped beside his bed, reaching for the laces tied at her neck.

"Thank you," she murmured, pulling on the laces until they began to come undone. The ivory silk slipped from her body, revealing the pale skin underneath and a plain cotton underdress. The silk pooled on the floor around her as she shed her falseness. She was perfect like this, plain and real, and heavy with his child. He kissed her softly, his lips clasping around hers, pulling gently.

She took his golden hand in hers. She knew how much he hated it. It must be so heavy, so annoying. It was a ghost of a man he used to be. He was no longer that man. She undid the laces strapping it to his body and allowed it to drop to the floor. It made a loud clunk, but neither turned to look at it. She stripped him of his Lannister crimson next, until he wore only his brown breeches and white cotton shirt. They were man and wife, plain and simple. There was no politics, no pretence here. For a moment, it was just two people.

She was too tired to consummate the marriage, it was clear to him, so he let her climb into his bed. He slipped in beside her. It was amazing to feel her sleepy warmth and he nuzzled his head into her shoulder. They were husband and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, bound for all eternity.

She smelled so good, raw and earthy and sweet. Her hair was soft, and tickled his cheek slightly as she breathed. She was fast asleep in moments, but he had a lot of time to study his wife before sleep washed over him. Her chest heaved as she slept, but she looked so peaceful. There was no fear, no pain, no embarrassment. She was beautiful.

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 **A/N Hope you liked this chapter. If you did, I'd love a review. If you didn't, concrit is welcome too.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Angst, fluff, then smut. What more could you want from a chapter? Hope you enjoy...**

 **Disclaimer: No, ASOIAF is still, surprisingly, not mine.**

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She woke in the night to the sound of him snoring. His face was buried in her shoulder and his stump rested by her hip. He was handsome, even in sleep. Months of sleeping on the floor, in a cell or the forest had shifted his sleeping position so that his left arm cushioned his head. He still looked cocky.

His lips were parted slightly, and his hair was ruffled just so. Why had he married her? He could have had any woman in Westeros. He was a member of the Kingsguard, a time-honoured institution. He was a Lannister, Casterly Rock was rightfully his, yet he had chosen Tarth. And her. It had to be some kind of joke. She had convinced herself after he had bedded her that he only wanted to take her maidenhead, to disgrace her, so that everyone could laugh at the stupid, ugly woman thought she had a chance with Jaime Lannister, and the bastard to prove it. Would he go so far as to marry her for a joke? It wasn't consummated yet – it could be annulled as easily as the High Septon signing a piece of paper. She wasn't a maiden when she married – easily proved once her child had been born. That could be used to void the marriage. It would be only too easy.

Jaime woke to Brienne's sobs. It took him a moment to realize that her sobs were real, and not part of some nightmare. His eyes flickered open to see his wife turned away from him, and hear her body racked with sobs. He sat bolt upright.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his stump nudging her shoulder.

"Like you care, Kingslayer," she grumbled, struggling to stand. "It's all a joke to you, isn't it?"

She stalked out, her anger almost comedic as she waddled out of the room. But Jamie didn't laugh. He stood up and followed her, as fast as his stiff legs would carry him. He was at a distinct disadvantage as she turned down corridors and up stairs, though she was slowed by the child inside her. It was almost pitch dark, and once or twice he almost walked into the stone walls of the castle. But eventually she reached her own chambers, and slammed the door in his face.

"Brienne!" he yelled through the heavy wooden door. "Brienne?"

"Wench!" he tried. His tone was a little angry, but he didn't feel any anger. He was worried. "What's wrong?"

He didn't get a response. It went against most customs, and all rules of chivalry, but he pushed against the door anyway. It opened easily and he slipped inside. He didn't care that he wasn't wanted here, he was her husband and he wanted her to be happy. He lit the taper resting on a chest by the door.

"Brienne?" he murmured, spotting her by the dim light, sat on her bed, her face buried in her hands. It hurt him so much to see her like this, and he didn't even know what was wrong.

"Sweetling? Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. Please," he said, his voice cracking. He sat next to her on the featherbed and put his right arm over her back. She pulled away from him, but there was nowhere else for her to go.

"It's all a joke, a lie, isn't it?" she sobbed. "Why did you marry me, Jaime?"

"Because I love you," he replied instinctively. It wasn't that he regretted saying it, he just hadn't meant to tell her like this. It just sort of slipped out.

"No you don't," she said maliciously. He saw her face for the first time, red and blotchy as it was. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she covered her face in embarrassment. Was he the first person to ever see her actually cry? She always seemed so strong, but it bothered her more than he had every realized. The pointing, the laughing, the teasing.

"Go away, Kingslayer," she choked.

"Never," he replied.

Finally, she turned to face him. Her eyes were red, innocent, afraid. It hurt him so much. Even Robert raping Cersei hadn't hurt as much as this. She feared him. She doubted him. He captured her lips in a passionate kiss. The salt of her tears lingered on her lips, and he closed his eyes, concentrating only on the softness of her lips, tracing every groove with his tongue. How could he prove his love for her?

"We don't choose who we love, you know," he began. "Everything would have been so much easier if I had loved Lysa Arryn, or at least married her, so much would have been different."

He stopped when he saw her dejected look. "No, that's not what I meant. If I had married her fifteen years ago, like my father wanted. But I loved someone else, until very recently. Others have only guessed at it, but I did love my sister. For a long time, I loved her,"

He was making things worse. It was dangerous to admit it, and she was stupid and stubborn enough to go and tell everyone. She looked up at him in disbelief, as if she was about to hit him.

"But I don't love her any more. I wanted to, all that time in Riverrun, on the way to King's Landing. When we got there, she had changed. She's gone mad. Fear and lust and power have changed her. And then I realized I loved someone else. You, Brienne."

She looked up again. Her eyes flickered with red and gold in the candle-light. They shone with fear, and disgust and hope. Could he really be telling the truth? No practical joke had gone as far as marriage before. Could there really be a shred of truth in this? No-one would admit to loving their sister if it wasn't true.

Their lips moved together again, and she tried to forget her questions. It felt good to lose herself in him, the wonder of his lips, the slight scratch of his whiskers against her skin. She would believe him, just for tonight.

"I think it's time for the bedding," he smirked when their lips parted. The next kiss was deeper, longer. Their tongues danced together, though he dominated easily. In time, he thought, he could have a fight on his hands. He stood up when they next parted for breath, pulling her with him. Her underdress and smallclothes were soon on the floor, followed quickly by his shirt and breeches.

She lay back on the bed, ready to do her wife's duty. He moved on top of her, pushing their lips together once more. He explored every corner of her mouth, his tongue flicking over her teeth, tasting her, melting away the fear in her. It was unwise, she knew, but she wanted to believe him. All this felt real. Real and good.

His fingers roamed her chest, catching, pinching her hardened nipple. One of her hands stretched to cup his toned arse, as his mouth left hers to trail wet kisses down the side of her neck. He paused to nibble just below her ear lobe, which made her breath hitch. His touch sent sparks shivering through her.

The little noises she made were making his cock throb. He was so hard for her, how could she question his love for her? His trail reached her breasts, and he bit down a little on one nipple. The sudden pain took her by surprise, and she moaned from somewhere low in her throat. He began to suckle on her, taking her stiff nipple into his mouth.

Pain subsided into pleasure as he expertly licked and sucked on her nipple. Fire was pooling deep inside her belly, a desire for him to be inside her, to climax again. Could she climax while heavy with child? She didn't know. She wondered if it was even safe to bed a man in her condition.

One finger brushed her slit, and her back arched with a desire for more. Still so inexperienced, so desperate for him. It made his cock harder, if that was possible. He pushed his finger further inside her, testing her wetness. She was already soaked. He slid one finger inside her, to the knuckle, finding a sweet spot inside her. She moaned loudly when he hit it. He pumped his finger in and out of her, aiming to hit the sweet spot with each thrust.

He kept stimulating a place that made all real thought desert her. It made her hips buck involuntarily, her throat moan and gasp. It felt amazing. His pace was slow, gentle. She wanted him to go faster, but she didn't want it to harm the baby. She was tired already, from her earlier outburst of tears, from all these things she was feeling, but she would not tell him to stop.

He added a second finger, and she moaned louder with the added sensation. He couldn't take much more of this. He needed to be inside her. His stump impulsively went to her breast, where he clumsily cupped it. He missed his hand. He couldn't seem to do anything he had once taken for granted.

He kissed along the stretch marks that patterned her belly. His son or daughter was growing inside her, one that he could be a real father to. It was strange to think that he would be a father, a father to trueborn children, to many sons and daughters. Brienne would be an excellent mother, he knew, raising strong daughters like herself, though perhaps a little prettier by common standards. The maester would teach them all to read and write, however much they hated it. The master-at-arms would teach their sons, and daughters both, if they wanted to learn, to be as good as Jaime had once been himself.

A twitch of his cock brought him back to the present, and he guided its head to her slit. His fingers moved to rub her hard nub as he pushed himself inside her. She was still so tight. He pushed fully inside her, slowly, savouring each instant. He could not lose control. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to harm the child.

His pace was painfully slow as he pushed in and pulled out of her. She felt his every movement inside her, the head hitting the place deep inside her that pushed her to the edge. It felt so good. She moaned without meaning to, and he jerked inside of her.

His fingers rubbed the place above her slit as he thrust into her. His stump circled her belly, and she felt the child move inside of her. Her moan of pleasure became one of pain.

He stopped. He had hurt her. He hadn't meant to. He pulled out so that only the head was inside her.

"What's wrong?" he gasped, breathless from the pleasure of being inside her.

"The baby," she heaved. For an instant he was terrified. Had he done something to hurt it? He had fucked Cersei when she was carrying her children, and there wasn't much wrong with Tommen and Myrcella at least. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he had hurt her child. His child.

"...it kicked," she finished, clutching her stomach with her hands.

He breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was alive. It was fine. He pushed into her again, capturing her lips in a deep kiss. It was the best kiss he had ever had, full of lust and passion and love. He had been wrong for so many years. He had always thought he was destined to be with his twin until his death, when the real woman he loved had been hiding on this fucking island his whole life. Not that he would have believed any of it when he was a young man, or even when he left Riverrun as her prisoner.

Finally she relaxed again, and the pain in her belly subsided. The pool of pleasure was still there inside her, building up again as he began to thrust. His mouth trailed along her body, from her mouth, down her neck, between her breasts, to her belly button.

His thrusts began to get harder again as he neared his climax. His brain had to fight with his cock for control of his body. He would not hurt her. His slow, determined thrusts brought her quickly to the edge, and she grunted and moaned with his every movement. She was exhausted, he could see, but he dare not go any quicker. He wouldn't finish inside her, he decided. Once she had finished, he would deal with himself. It wasn't fair to make her wait.

He thrust once more, and she lost control. She screamed. This felt amazing. He felt amazing.

"Ahh… Jamie!" she cried as she came back to herself.

He pulled out of her, though he hadn't spilt his seed. Her hands clutched his back to prevent him from rolling off her.

"You look so beautiful like that," he grunted, as his own hand went to take care of his own needs. "So beautiful."

Her hand stopped him. She gripped his member with her hand, using her fingers to stroke along its length. It felt almost as good as being inside her. She moved her hand sleepily up and down, squeezing too tight here, her grip loose in other places. He could forgive her for being inexperienced, he was just so glad that she had chosen to do this for him. Did she believe him now, he wondered. But then it all became too much, as he felt a wave of intense bliss and he spilt his seed in her hand.

A few drops hit her bare hip and he wondered how perfect she would look if he spilled his seed on her stomach. A few drops on her breast and her thighs, and her whole body covered in his seed. She would be so beautiful, so perfect. She would be his, completely. And he would be hers.

"I love you," he groaned, returning to the present. He wiped his seed off her side, before turning onto his back. She was asleep in minutes, curled onto her side, but this time she faced him, her stomach on his hip. He was happier than he had been in a long time.

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 **A/N Short chapter I know, but I hope you liked it anyway. If you did, please let me know what you thought in a review. Follows and favourites are great too, but they don't tell me what you think about where I'm going with this story. I'm open to suggestions, even if I have got a few more chapters written.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Here it is, after so long. I've finally bothered to edit and upload this chapter. I don't think I've managed to contradict my own canon, but you never know. Anyway, something for everyone in this chapter, including my first attempt at writing about childbirth. Hope you enjoy!  
**

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It hurt so much. Her back felt like it was shattered. She knew it wouldn't support her if she tried to stand. Not that she wanted to stand. Her core was on fire, but not in a good way. This was not the licks of passion she felt when Jaime was inside her, but a searing pain, burning away all her insides. All she felt was hurt. How did ordinary women go through this? It was worse than anything she had ever experienced in combat. Women were the real heroes, she decided, just as a fresh wave of pain washed over her. She heard herself howl in agony as she struggled to keep her line of thought. The maester was there offering her milk of the poppy, but she'd already had enough to make her head fuzzy. There was a midwife too, holding a damp cloth to her sweaty forehead.

"Jaime," she moaned. "Jaime."

More pain. It was all that seemed to exist. The torture had been there for hours, the limitations this bloody baby was causing her had been going on for months. Jaime had stopped her from fighting and training a few days after their wedding. They hadn't bedded since their wedding night, though she would have liked to. She'd barely left the castle since then.

Four months. The longhall, the bedroom, the privy. It was the extent of her world these days. She longed for the excitement of the training yard, the scent of survival in the wild, the sensation of him inside her, hard and fast, like the first time.

"I need Jaime," she gasped to the midwife, whose pretty young face would haunt her to the end of her days. She was attentive, comforting, but all Brienne could associate with her was the agony of childbed. She had expected pain, but not, not like this. A gentle, feminine sort of pain that was easy for someone as big as her to bear.

"I can see the head," the old maester remarked from the end of the bed. It felt like it had been hours, days, months, since she had felt her labour pains start in the middle of the night. Hours of struggle, for what? He could only just see the head.

Dawn was breaking outside, a new chapter, a new life beginning. A new contraction beginning too as she groaned her way through it. She needed to see him. This child would be the death of her, she was sure. She needed him.

* * *

She was screaming his name. It hurt him so much to hear her in pain, and he had sunk to his knees outside her bedchamber a long time ago. He wanted to be in there, to comfort her, to hold her. But she had insisted it would be fine. He knew she didn't like to show her weakness to anyone, least of all him, but he was worried. He wanted to go, to walk away for a few minutes, perhaps break his fast early, but her screams stopped him from going anywhere.

Finally, the door opened to reveal a mousy-looking maid with a staggeringly calm expression on her face.

"How is she?" he asked, scrabbling up from the floor. "Is something wrong?"

"Everything's fine, m'lord… Ser. Lady Brienne has been asking for you,"

He pushed past the maid in his haste to reach his wife, yet she continued to speak.

"I warn you m'lord, the childbed 'ent a pretty sight." He didn't care. He could hear her screaming anew, and in an instant, he was at her side.

Her skin was flushed, and her body was drenched with sweat. Her dirty blonde hair was plastered to her face, which was contorted with pain and effort. Her breathing was laboured, punctuated by screams and grunts and shouts. He slipped onto the bed beside her, curling himself around Brienne's beautiful form. His shoulder rubbed against hers, and he felt the burning heat being given off by her skin.

Say something, you fool, he thought to himself. Comfort her. She needs you, more than she's ever needed you before.

"Brienne," he breathed.

She turned her head to face him for the first time. It seemed a huge effort.

"Jaime," she heaved, her mouth twisting into a slight smile. Her eyes lit up though, and he realized that just by being here, he was a help.

He had sat with Cersei like this, giving her soft kisses as she laboured. He had known what to say then, why didn't he now? What had he said, all those years ago?

"The head is here," the maester said, picking up a fresh towel to wrap the newborn's head in once it arrived. Jaime did not dare look at her down there. He wasn't averse to the sight of blood, but this amount, coming from her, it would be too much for him. It had a certain smell to it too, which was making him a little nauseous.

Brienne screamed again, louder, more intensely than before. He leant over awkwardly, and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to her ruby lips. Then another, to her forehead, then more, to her cheeks and neck. She tasted of salt and sweat.

* * *

It was almost here. It was almost over. The head was out, the body would soon follow. Hours of pain, for a stupid wailing child. But Jaime was here beside her now, and he made things better. His warmth felt good. His warmth was what had got her into this stupid mess. Why would any woman choose to go through this more than once?

She hoped it was a son. Then Tarth was secure for another generation, and she would never have to go through this again. But then she would never feel Jaime spill his seed inside her again.

She heard a cry, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, it wasn't her. Her baby. The wails filled the room, resonating in the stone. It sounded perfect. She was in so much pain, but for a second it was almost worth it.

She pushed again, and it was finished. Her baby was born.

"Congratulations, my lady," the maester smiled, cutting the child's cord and rubbing the blood from its soft newborn skin. "You have a son."

* * *

The little boy, his son, was beautiful, even covered in his mother's blood. His eyes were blue, bluer than the waters of Tarth, like his mother's. They were big and round, set in his chubby face. His head was covered in a down of soft, dark hair, but he would lose that in time. He would be blond, like his parents, and tall, well-built. He was perfect.

Brienne was still struggling as she delivered the afterbirth, but the midwife and maester were paying more attention to the newborn babe. A bath of water had been taken off the fire to clean both babe and mother, and soon, Jaime could see the boy's unblemished skin, the colour of ivory. In time, though, it would be bruised and covered in scars from years of weapons practice. This boy could be the greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, with determination and practice. He certainly had the blood for it.

He pressed another kiss to Brienne's forehead. They were a proper family. He had a proper family, after everything that had happened. He had a son that he could be proud of, not a cunt like Joffrey, or a plump little idiot like Tommen. Not that he could ever call them his sons. Not that he ever wanted them to be his sons.

Brienne's breathing was levelling out. Her sweaty face relaxed into the beginnings of a smile, but he could see she was exhausted.

"You did it," he said lamely. She had just done the most incredible thing, and he couldn't even find a word to congratulate her. He felt pathetic. He didn't deserve her.

The maester placed the child into Brienne's waiting arms, laying him across her body as he gurgled and whined.

"Our son," he murmured. "My son,"

"I never knew I wanted children. I didn't want children," she said quietly, and he knew it was time they had a serious conversation. Perhaps it wasn't a good time, she must be so tired, but it was the right time.

"Could you- could you leave us please?" he asked the maester. He bowed slightly and hurried out. Why was everyone so afraid of him? He was a knight, nothing more. Not even a landed knight. He wasn't a fancy lord. He wasn't even a real Lannister, not any more. He was a one-handed cripple with an ageing pretty face.

"I never wanted children either," he murmured, once the door had shut and they were completely alone. "I was a Kingsguard, sworn off marriage and children. Yet now I am here. Things change."

She sat up abruptly, the babe dropping a little way to settle in her arms. She silently cursed herself. She would be an awful mother. He had been born for ten minutes and she had already almost dropped him. He wouldn't make it to his first name-day. A name! They had never talked about names. It hadn't been what she was going to ask, but a name for their firstborn was more important. What she wanted could wait.

"He needs a name," she blurted out. "What about Tywin, for your father?"

"Gods no!" he retorted. "What would the poor child do with a name like Tywin? He's not a Lannister. I'm done with Lannisters. He is the newest member of House Tarth,"

He always sounded like he was mocking her when he said 'Tarth'. Every time it made her unsure whether he really meant all of this. But it didn't matter. This was her son, and Jaime was right. Her son was a Tarth.

"What about Selwyn, for your father? Or Galladon, was it – your brother?"

"No," she insisted. "He should have his own name."

"What about Renly?" he interrupted. "I know you loved him,"

She rolled her eyes. He always made too much of her affection for her old king. He was kind to her, that was all. She fought for him, and she still believed that he could have been a good king. But she wouldn't name her son for him. He should have a new name, one that wasn't weighted with treachery and expectation.

"I don't want to name him after anyone. What about Jacelyn?"

"It sounds like a girl's name," he retorted. "He should have a strong name, like Tybolt."

"That's a Lannister name," she pointed out. "You said you didn't want a Lannister name. What about Alynn?"

"Alynn?" he said tentatively, testing it out. His eyes flicked to the babe, still happy in his mother's arms. "Alynn of House Tarth."

The infant's eyes opened and seemed to focus on his father for just a moment. That was his name. It had to be.

"Would you like to hold him?" she offered. "He needs to feed."

He looked at her incredulously. Did she think he could feed it? He knew she wasn't the brightest woman in Westeros, but understanding the principle of how to feed a newborn babe wasn't difficult. Thankfully he was wrong. Brienne placed Alynn in his arms, so the boy's face and stomach rested against Jaime's chest. Brienne stood, slowly, painfully to remove her shift. Her breasts were swollen and a little red, bigger than they were before. The gap between her thighs was stained dark red where the child had come out, but otherwise, her naked body was as he remembered it.

She soon took the child back, to nurse at her breast. Jaime missed his warmth as soon as he was gone. He had never felt like this when he held Cersei's children.

Brienne moaned in a little pain as the child found her nipple. Jaime took her hand in his and squeezed it comfortingly.

"I love you. Both of you," he murmured, leaning his face on her shoulder.

* * *

Telling her father about her pregnancy had been so hard. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done. Telling him how much she hated being a woman had almost become second nature, but this would be a stain on her honour. Her father could name her son bastard, and she could do nothing to prevent it. There was no way to prove that Alynn was Jaime's seed, and there was no dispute that they had had relations outside of marriage, but mayhaps her father would understand.

"My lord," she said, letting herself into his solar. He kissed her hand lightly, and cleared his throat.

"All these years Brienne, and three marriage proposals. And now you bring me a bastard?" he said slowly, incredulously.

"He is Jaime's son, Father, I swear it. My son. You wouldn't send him away?" she murmured. She would not let him take Alynn away. Alynn was his blood, no matter what the laws of men said. Alynn was no bastard. He was the product of their marriage, just a few months early.

"He is a bastard, Brienne. He may be your blood, and mine, but I have no proof that he is your husband's. I raised you to be a woman of honour," he said gravely. He had taken a seat behind his desk, and Brienne had followed meekly. She held the sleeping child in her arms, a boy who was entirely unaware that his life hinged on this conversation.

"I am a woman of honour. The only man I have lain with is my husband, and this is his son. The gold is already coming through in his hair. He has Lannister blood. Jaime's blood," she insisted.

Her father's look was one of shame. She had seen him wear it often, particularly when talking to her. But never like this.

"Nonetheless, you had relations outside of marriage. How can I leave Tarth to a bastard, Brienne?" he demanded, burying his face in his hands.

"He is not a bastard!" she spat, rising from her seat, clutching him so hard that he woke up and immediately began to cry. She nestled him into her chest, and sank back into her seat, stroking his cheek gently until he settled. "You will not send him away from Tarth. Away from me. Please, Father."

Her father sighed audibly. He had had a difficult time raising her, she knew. She was a difficult woman. But she would not stop being difficult now.

"Fine, Brienne. He will have my name, but he will not have Tarth. Your next son, a trueborn son, will inherit Tarth, after my death, and your husband's."

"So he would be a bastard in all but name?" she returned.

Her father stood. "He would be raised as a second son. The island, the castle will be free for his use. With luck, he will be a knight,"

"Just not the Lord of Tarth?" she breathed. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Many sons did not inherit their father's titles. And if Alynn wanted what was rightfully his, he could take it.

"Precisely," her father said.

"And if I have no more sons?"

Brienne thought aloud. She had no desire to go through the pain of childbed again. She could have only daughters. She may not have any more children at all.

"Then, and only then, will Alynn have Tarth."

* * *

 **A/N Hope you enjoyed. I'm not convinced about the last scene, but let me know what you thought. I love reviews!  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N I've decided to post this chapter pretty much because I've embarked on the quest of editing this story and giving it some sort of plot and I just wanted to let everyone who has followed/favourited this story know. Also, I wanted to thank you, if you're reading this, for being patient with me while I've given up and then later come back to this fic.**

 **So, this chapter contains mainly smut, but is a little more based on power exchange that previous scenes I've written. I'm not sure if you think it works with their characters and their relationship, and I can't guarantee this chapter won't undergo heavy editing like the others. But I would like to know what you think so I can attempt to focus this story on some sort of direction.**

 **Anyway, on with it:**

* * *

She had missed this. Months of waiting, being careful, pregnancy, birth, nursing. It was all over. She had her old life back, well, almost. She was still married to Jaime, and that meant she had a wife's duty as well as training. She had lost a lot of her strength, which she found out within a few seconds of training. Her old master-at-arms had been working with Jaime, in strictest confidence, to improve his skill left-handed. But Brienne was embarrassed to learn that she couldn't even beat him. The blunted sword she used was heavy, and it dragged her arm down.

She was beaten and bruised and retired in less than half an hour. A ten-year-old boy would do better than that. Podrick had indeed done better than that this particular morning. Despite everything, he was still her loyal squire, though Jaime had promised to make him a knight as soon as he was old and skilled enough. They both owed him a lot, and they would make certain that he was always content.

* * *

She slunk off to see her son, now six months old, and growing strong. His hair was blond, pure gold like his father's, and his eyes were the same blue as hers. He had a handful of freckles across his cheeks over his soft ivory-coloured skin. He would be a handsome man, she thought. Not as handsome as Jaime, her influence decided that, but handsome.

"Alynn," she greeted. The infant's eyes opened sleepily. He shuffled around a little in his cradle, attempting to sit. It was too early to feed him yet, so she lifted him out of the crib and placed him on the floor of his nursery. He immediately shifted onto his hands and knees and clumsily crawled across the floor. He would soon be able to stand, she thought. He had reached a low table, and was trying to grip the top. His little eyes were on the little wooden horse resting on its surface. Brienne watched him struggle for a moment before handing him the toy.

His little hands were clumsy with it, and he dropped it more than once. It was difficult to imagine him becoming a great warrior, or even a man. He was so tiny, so young, so beautiful.

She lifted him onto her lap. He struggled for a moment, until she offered him her breast. He had been starting to eat solid foods, and there would be an extra mouth to feed come winter. But he would not taste the delights of spring until he was almost a man grown. This winter would be a long one, so this boy would grow up on meagre portions of black bread and salted meat. Perhaps they would get one more harvest before winter set in properly in the south.

Motherhood seemed to be a boring affair, she decided. Whilst she loved Alynn, she seemed to have far more concerns about food and politics than she used to. It was quite tedious. She wanted to get out into the wilderness again, but she knew she couldn't while she had all the strength of a green boy and a son to nurse. She doubted she would ever go on another quest. She would be preoccupied for the rest of this war and she prayed she would be too old to be involved in the next one.

Jaime would have finished training by now. She should go and find him. She could ride at least, she hoped, and she wanted to show him the island. It was the most beautiful place she had ever seen, and she wanted to share it with him.

She went back to their chamber to change into fresh garb for the afternoon. She also thought Jaime might be there. But he wasn't. She changed into a leather jerkin and breeches before noticing a piece of paper on her table beside the bed. It wasn't sealed.

 _Brienne,_

 _Meet me in my guest chamber after supper. Wear a dress._

 _Jaime_

She was curious. What did this mean? They had slept together in her chambers since their wedding night. Why did he want to see her in his? He had never asked her to wear a dress before. Did he expect her to soften into the womanly arts now that she was a mother? Now that she had gotten out of practice with a sword?

She had a brief luncheon before taking her horse from the stable. She doubted she would find Jaime this afternoon, not if he didn't want to be found. She went from the castle to the coast, and she rode along the cliffs until it was almost dark. It was strange, but she didn't want to be late for Jaime. Sure, she was suspicious of him, but the last time she had done that, she had been wrong. She would do what he asked without question, after all, it was only a note. At least she got to choose the dress.

She would stay in control. It was just Jaime. She had faced worse than him before. He said he loved her, and she almost believed him. He wouldn't hurt her. Still, she felt a little queasy as she reached into her wardrobe for the blue dress she had worn when she had visited Jaime in the Lord Commander's chambers. She hated to put it on, she felt so ugly and uncomfortable, and she hated having to summon a maid to help her lace it up, but it wasn't designed to be put on by just one person.

She picked from the bowl of fruit in her chambers, but she didn't want to go down to the longhall. She looked ridiculous dressed like this and she had no appetite. The walk to Jaime's guest chamber around an hour after dusk was agonizing and nerves tingled inside her with every step. What if he did something to embarrass her? She would still be married to him, even if she grew to hate him. It seemed to take forever to reach his door, which was firmly shut. She knocked hesitantly.

* * *

He opened the door to see her standing there, swathed in the same blue silk she had worn for him back in King's Landing. She was quite beautiful, he saw. She was slowly losing the fat she had put on when she was carrying Alynn, yet she was still worse than he was with a sword. He was glad of that. It made him feel manly again, which had given him the courage to do this.

He took in her face, her freckles, her lips, her eyes. Her eyes. They shone with nervousness and fear. He felt stupid already. Why had he demanded her to wear a dress? She hated them and what they symbolised. What must she think of his intentions? But he had to go through with this. He needed her. He needed to fuck her, to introduce the art of it to her. Making love was fine, but it could get boring very quickly. He wanted her to learn what it meant to be fucked hard and fast. He wanted to take her to the brink of her climax before denying her. He wanted to teach her everything he had ever learned about fucking, so she could feel everything he wanted her to. Mostly, he wanted to make her feel special, beautiful, loved.

"Come in, wench," he said, bringing his hand up to caress her cheek. One finger brushed the sensitive spot below her ear. She shivered a little under his touch. A part of him liked her being a little afraid of him. At least someone was. Another part of him questioned everything he had ever said or done to her. Why was she afraid of him? What had he done to frighten her?

She obeyed him hesitantly, and he shut the door behind her.

"It's been a long time since you did your wife's duty Brienne," he said, as if it had nothing to do with him. He knew that her long period of inactivity had mostly been down to him, but he wanted to look after her. He had wanted her so many times in the ten moons since their wedding night, but he knew she wasn't ready. But with Alynn beginning to eat solid food and Brienne becoming impatient to return to sword practice, he had decided that it was time.

He heard her begin to protest, but he silenced her with a dark look. "Now, wench," he said slowly. "I think I've been too generous thus far. It's time that you pleasured me."

She looked at him, her face the picture of confusion and fear. They were going to fuck, what was so frightening about that?

"Brienne, there's more to fucking than me sticking my cock in your cunt."

She looked uncomfortable with the coarse language he used, though he wasn't entirely sure why. She had been around enough soldiers to have heard it before, though most of the time it would have been used to threaten her. Mayhaps that's why it made her feel so uncomfortable. He would have to remember that.

"Kneel by the bed there," he instructed, his cock beginning to stir. He felt oddly powerful, to have this great beast of a woman obeying him almost without question. His thoughts drifted to memories of her naked in his bed, writhing in pleasure as his cock thrust into her. In moments, his cock was fully hard, as she knelt in front of him, waiting for his guidance.

"Unlace my breeches," he continued. He probably should have got her in a better mood first, used his kisses to relieve her fear, but it was too late now. Her fingers were shaking as she reached the laces securing his breeches. He took her hand in his, and bent down to kiss each finger, then doing the same with her other hand.

His laces were undone quickly, and he stepped out of his breeches. His cock throbbed level with her mouth, eagerly anticipating what was to come. She looked up at him again, waiting for his instruction. She was still so naive, despite being a mother already.

"Take the head in your mouth. Kiss it, lick it, suck on it a little," he said. He felt a little greedy asking this of her – it was only her third time, but he had a man's needs. He had been fucking Cersei for so many years. They had become inventive.

No. He would not think about Cersei now. She had fucked Lancel and Osney Kettleblack and Moon Boy. No. He would not think about that now. He had a woman he loved knelt in front of his cock, a beautiful, simple, perfect woman. He would never do her the injustice of thinking about his sister while fucking her.

* * *

It was the first long look she had gotten of his manhood. It was red and long and hard, and she saw a tiny drop of white fluid glistening on its tip. That had been inside her. Her son had come from that. It was as ugly as she was.

Why was she knelt before him like a servant? He was going to tell her it was all a lie now, a fifteen moon long jape. They would annul the marriage because of the cloaking and take her son away, and name him bastard. He would rape her now and cast her aside. And she had almost managed to convince herself that it was real.

But his voice was so tender as he told her to take his manhood into her mouth. His kisses were so gentle. Mayhaps it was real. Again, she let him take control of her emotions, she let herself believe.

The head of his manhood touched her lips, and nerves surged through her body. What if she hurt him? He had said, such a long time ago, in Harrenhal, that he trusted her. Did she trust him? She did.

Her lips slid over his head, her tongue flicking the fluid on his slit as she took him inside her. It tasted salty, but not entirely unpleasant. Her tongue went underneath his manhood, circling the vein on its underside. It was then she remembered what he said. She sucked on him a moment, her throat tightening quickly as she struggled to breathe.

She retreated quickly, taking a deep breath before kissing his tip. She took him inside her again, her tongue swirling his head.

"Deeper. Take me furthah-," his instruction was cut off by a gasp as she followed his advice. His head was in the back of her throat now, and she sucked on him, sliding along his length. His own hand went to the base, where she couldn't reach.

* * *

Her inexperienced mouth worked around his head, and it felt amazing to have a woman around his cock again. It wouldn't take much for him to spill his seed inside her mouth, but it would be too much for her first time. She was doing so well, it was an effort to pull himself out of her, but he did, before instinct could take over and his hands reached for her head to force himself down her throat. He wanted to be inside her when he spilt his seed.

"You did very well, sweetling. Very well considering it was your first time. It was your first time, wasn't it?"

An emotion that wasn't fear flashed through her eyes at last with his teasing. "Wench, relax. It's just me."

She didn't calm much. Her breath was still uneasy, so he knelt down opposite her. He had intended to ask her to stand up, but his voice caught in his throat. She saw enemies even when there were none. She didn't believe that he loved her. It hurt. He would have to live with her non-belief, live every day trying to prove it to her, just because some dumb cunts had told her she didn't deserve his love. It was cruel.

He kissed her. Slowly at first, tugging her bottom lip just a little, tracing her soft lips. His tongue slipped inside her mouth, pressing against her tongue gently. He loved this woman. It was so unfair the way the world treated her. He ran a hand through her soft blonde hair, tickling her neck a little when he reached it. Her arms hung limp at her side, and that hurt him more than anything.

"Brienne?" he whispered, parting from her lips for just a moment.

* * *

This wasn't real. It couldn't be. It was all a big joke, a mistake, a lie. He would never love her. She didn't know what this was, or why he was doing all this, but it was an act. She pulled away from him and stood up. The door was just a few paces away.

"Brienne, I'm sorry if I hurt you. I thought you were ready for this, I'm sorry. I just wanted to get close to you again. I wanted to be intimate with you in the same way I was with… with – it doesn't matter."

He wanted to kick himself. He never wanted to compare Brienne to Cersei. Especially not out loud. Especially not in front of her. She whirled around, flashes of anger in her eyes as well as sadness and fear.

"With Cersei, you mean, Jaime?" she stuttered, opening the door to leave. He had admitted to loving his sister before, but she had managed to convince herself that they had never acted on those feelings. That their bond had run so deep.

"Yes," he admitted. "But not for a long time, I promise."

* * *

The last time Jaime remembered crying was when his mother died, but he was close to tears now. With every moment, every word, she was retreating further into herself. He shouldn't have said that. It was stupid of him. He could well have ruined their relationship forever. She didn't really trust him as it was. But now he'd brought it up, he would have to tell her. Not to do so would be an insult.

"I haven't thought about Cersei since that day, in the Kingsguard Tower, when we made our son, I swear," he continued, his voice faltering.

"Your promises are worth nothing, Kingslayer," she snapped, throwing open the door. She was almost gone.

"Please Brienne, just listen to me,"

She stopped.

"Shut the door. You can't ever tell anyone about this. The consequences would be more dire than you can imagine. There would be another war Brienne," he started, taking a seat on the bed. She did the same, but sat away from him, far enough so that he couldn't stretch his arm around her.

"We don't choose who we love Brienne, you must know that. Mayhaps if I'd had the choice, I would have fallen in love with the first woman my father tried to betroth me to- Lysa Tully. Instead, I joined the Kingsguard to be close to my sister. At the time, I couldn't be apart from her. She was my other half. We were one person in two bodies."

He stopped at her heartbroken look. This was so hard. It was all history, all over ten years ago, and he had told her this before. Why didn't she understand?

"Brienne, this was thirteen years ago. I don't feel like that any longer. I love you now. I have loved you since that day in the bathhouse at Harrenhal. And very shortly after that I realized I couldn't love Cersei any longer. She's gone mad with power. That's when I knew I had to leave."

He looked up at her face. Tears were fighting their way out of her eyes, but she looked a little less… betrayed, for want of a better word. There was a long pause. Her face was flushed, and Jaime became very conscious of the fact that he was naked, save for his cotton undershirt. He was still hard, but he was in no mood to fuck his wife now. His wife was in no mood to be fucked now, in truth.

He grabbed the coverlet and covered himself with it. "Brienne? Say something, please," he begged, reaching out to stroke her cheek. She didn't resist his caress.

"They're yours," she murmured. "King Tommen, Princess Myrcella, King Joffrey. Your bastards. Your children."

"They were each a squirt of seed in my sister's cunt."

He spoke without thinking again. He had to control his language around her.

"They were my nephews and nieces. They weren't my children. What we have together, you and I, is different. We are the little family I never knew I wanted," he smiled a little, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"They're not trueborn heirs," she breathed. "Stannis was right,"

"Slow, as usual, wench," he grinned, though the usual sparkle wasn't there in his eyes. She shouldn't have tried to dig into his past. She didn't need to know what he had been in the past. He had changed since he had lost his hand. He wasn't the same man.

He trusted her with all of this. How many others in the Seven Kingdoms knew this? He couldn't hate her. Some spark of this wasn't an act. Mayhaps it was real.

"Jaime? Do you love me?" she whimpered. Her voice sounded so timid, so vulnerable. So weak. How could she question whether he loved her? She was his everything now.

"I do, Brienne. I love you. More than anything," he said, reaching up to caress her hair. It was not long, but it was soft and beautiful. He leaned in, twisting uncomfortably to be nearer to her. He rested his head on her shoulder, letting his hand drop. He felt her uneven breathing begin to calm, and relief washed over him like a storm.

* * *

 **A/N I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please remember to let me know what you think, but please no flames if you didn't like it.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N A very short chapter, I know, but it follows straight on from the last one, but I felt they needed to be separated. I don't have any more chapters pre-written, and I'm still working on editing this story, so updates are probably going to be slower from now on. But, I am in the process of writing a oneshot based on s6 ep8, "No-One", which, naturally is Brienne/Jaime centred, which I hope to upload soon.**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy the smut that is this chapter.**

* * *

Their lips brushed against one another's, and it felt as good as the first time. She accepted him. The kiss was gentle, her soft lips moving against his, tugging his lower lip impatiently. He liked this new-found confidence she had. He let her trace his lips and slip her tongue inside his mouth. He allowed her to explore him, take charge. She was no longer an innocent maiden, she was a mother. A woman.

Tentatively she allowed her tongue to move against his. At times like this, she really did believe him when he said he loved her. How could he be this gentle if he didn't really care about her? For the first time, she sought her own pleasure, moving her tongue against his. She needed to believe him. She needed him inside her, to feel the climax she had been denied for so long. It was his fault she had had to wait for this.

She lay back on the bed, grasping his face in her hands as she did so. She wouldn't allow him to break contact. He knelt over her, using his hand to slide her skirts up her legs. He soon revealed her smallclothes, which he struggled to pull down while kissing her.

He broke the kiss, taking deep breaths for air as he used both hand and stump to pull her smallclothes to her knees. She lifted her hips to help, but only so she could have his lips back.

He was hard for her again, but he wanted her in a different way. The way lords and ladies fucked was all well and good, but there were other ways for his wench to learn about. She was no lady, and he was no lord.

She moved to pull him closer again.

"No!" he growled in response. He flipped her over, so that he was lying beneath her. He guided her to kneel over his cock, her skirts pooling over his stomach. He should have taken her dress off, but it made no matter.

He sat up, his hand winding into her dress, looking for her warm folds. He stroked her outside, rolling her soft flesh between his fingers. His mouth latched onto her neck, nibbling a little harder than he'd dared before, sucking hard enough to leave a little trail of bruises along her skin. She was his, and he planned to claim her properly.

One finger brushed her slit and slipped inside. It felt good to have him inside her again, even if it was only a finger. He moved it a little, finding a sweet spot that forced all her questions out of her mind. There was only him now.

She was so wet. Wet from a need built in her earlier, but so far unsatisfied. Wet from a need rising in her now, which would soon be fulfilled. He couldn't wait much longer. His cock throbbed as he pleasured her and he sunk back into the bed, his hand and stump on her waist, guiding her slit over his tip.

She knelt down over him, the head sliding into her easily. It felt strange, to be atop him. His manhood seemed to reach different places inside of her to when she lay under him. It felt good. Better than good. Her hips rose instinctively, sliding his length in and out of her. She didn't know if it was right, but it made her moan a little as she increased her pace.

Her instinct was perfect, and the feel of her cunt around his cock was amazing. His hips bucked up to meet hers, hitting a place deep inside her making her moan loudly. She sounded amazing in her pleasure. Her pace quickened, their hips meeting and parting ever more briefly. A need for release built fast within him, and he was so close to the edge. One more thrust, two. He should have lasted longer, but it had been a long time since he had been with a woman. He spilled his seed inside her violently, her hips bucking against his groin as she sought her own release. She found it moments after he did, with the added sensation of his seed forcing its way inside her. Her screams were loud enough to wake the whole castle, but neither of them cared. This was right. Allowed and approved of by all laws of gods and men. One of the only things he had ever done by the laws of gods.

She reached her pleasure with grunts that she would later be embarrassed to make. He felt better than she remembered, his manhood reached deep into her core. Her hips bucked without her moving them and she was brought crashing back into reality as her pleasure subsided. It felt strange to sit atop him, controlling how he moved and what he did. Her hips bucked a few more times, and his arms went to her shoulders, encouraging her to move off of him.

She lay beside him on her back, her warmth flowing into him. It made him feel alive, fighting and fucking. She made him feel alive. He would be happy to fight and fuck her for the rest of his life. He was away from everything he had ever hated. The politics and back-stabbing of King's Landing. The expectation and responsibility of Casterly Rock. Now, he could be lord over a little island in the middle of nowhere, with just a handful of smallfolk to care for.

His wife was panting next to him. Her ragged breaths were the only sound; the candles he had lit earlier burning low in their holders.

"I love you," he whispered, capturing her lips in an uncharacteristically sweet kiss. He was hers. Until his last day, he would be hers. And every day until his last, he would remind her of just how much he meant it.

* * *

 **A/N I hope you enjoyed. If you did, I would really appreciate a review.  
**


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